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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725538">Who, Being Loved, is Poor?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricaneredd/pseuds/hurricaneredd'>hurricaneredd</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And the surviving members remember those they've loved and lost, Brief mentions of Azu, Brief mentions of Cel, Brief mentions of Grizzop, Brief mentions of Sasha, Gen, I don't even know what this is but it happened, Look I was struck by inspiration and this happened, M/M, Oscar is very reflective</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 16:27:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,318</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725538</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricaneredd/pseuds/hurricaneredd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Old age was never something Oscar expected to achieve.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan &amp; Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Who, Being Loved, is Poor?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My gift to the entire Red String Brigade. You have all been there for me in ways you don't even know, and I couldn't be prouder or happier to have met all of you, even when the criminals destroy me. Enjoy some nice things before we all die at the hands of 147. </p><p>As is going to be a theme with my Wilde stories, apparently, the quote at the end comes from him.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Old age was never something Oscar expected to achieve. Even as a young lad growing up on the streets of Dublin, he expected to be dead and buried young—one of the greats who burned too brightly. Despite being born to such renown parents and being well-educated—or, perhaps, because of them—he hadn’t held out hopes to see past forty if he was lucky. <em>Maybe</em> fifty. Hedonism and recklessness coursed through his veins even then.</p><p>Joining the Meritocrats in his early twenties only reaffirmed his beliefs.</p><p>When he signed up to work as a Meritocratic officer and liaison, he didn’t know what to expect beyond being able to travel the world, enjoying all of the fineries it had to offer while doing incredibly mundane work. What he got instead was a life full of danger and heartache. Hunting down those who wanted to throw wrenches into society, dispatching mercenaries and other teams to do the dirty work while he spun words of grandiose heroics and the everyman success.</p><p>He lost count of all those who’d been lost over the years. Those he’d sent off to danger. Those he’d carry with him until his last breath. They were innumerable, but he remembered each of their faces.</p><p>Then, when he hit his thirties and the world had gone to hell, that projected lifespan grew even shorter.</p><p>Those early days were forever etched into his memory. The riots, losing his team to Rome, the burgeoning of the blue veins—</p><p>Alfred’s betrayal had cut him deep at the time, though a part of him knew that he couldn’t really blame the younger man. The infection, once it took hold, made people do unexpected and terrible things. He thought that was the worst of it.</p><p>Then the Meritocrats abandoned the world, left it to its own devices right when they needed them the most.</p><p>He was forced to work with those who had every right to want him dead. The Harlequins and the Separatists weren’t ideal partners, he’d admit, but they shared a common goal.</p><p>No, Oscar Wilde never imagined to live long enough to be able to declare that he was old, yet here he was, sitting at an antique oak desk with a now lukewarm cup of tea, a book of poetry all but forgotten in his hands as he watched the familiar figure of a dwarf hobble his way up the pathway that would lead him to their porch.</p><p>Gently tossing the book of poetry aside, he stretched his limbs, groaning as the ever-present, bone-deep ache flared. There was something to be said of never reaching seventy-three, but despite the obstacles that came with old age he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.</p><p>“You gonna sit there all day or what?”</p><p>Oscar looked over to the doorway of his study and saw Zolf standing there, arms crossed over his chest, a gruff expression lighting his face. But try as he might, Oscar knew Zolf well enough to know it was all for show. There was no stubborn jut of his jaw, no furrowed brows and narrowed, hardened eyes as he glared at the bard.</p><p>His smile was never the same after Alfred’s attack. The mangled flesh and scarred muscles would never allow for him to grin quite as—how had Florence once describe it? Roguishly charming. Yes, that smile would never see the light of day, but the one that pulled at his lips, that had the right side curved a little higher than the left was one that few ever got to see. There was a softness to it, as much as his eyes lit up with familiar glee.</p><p>Zolf had been the first to receive such a smile from him. He didn’t know when exactly the dwarf had managed to worm his way into his life so much as to earn his own private collection of smiles, but he had and that was what mattered.</p><p>“Of course not,” he answered with ease. Fingers curling around the arms of his chair, he pushed himself up with relative ease. “What kind of host do you take me for, Mr. Smith?”</p><p>Zolf snorted at the mock offended tone and moved to his side, reaching out to wrap a steady hand around Oscar’s forearm.</p><p>“Easy there, Oscar,” he grunted. “Don’t need you falling on your arse and injuring yourself before Hamid gets here.”</p><p>And though he might not admit it out loud, Oscar was grateful for the assistance.</p><p>“Is he here already?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Zolf answered. The two navigated the familiar hallway of their shared home. “Got here a few minutes ago. He’s waiting for us downstairs.”</p><p>Oscar hummed softly and nodded, silently pulling out of the cleric’s grasp only to slip his</p><p>“Hello Oscar,” Hamid greeted him warmly, the now familiar genial smile gracing the halfling’s lips as he closed the distance between them to wrap his arms his legs briefly.</p><p>It wasn’t the first time Hamid hugged him. The years they fought by each other’s side and worked together to bring about some semblance of peace and order forced them to grow close, much like he and Zolf had, though in very distinct ways. Hamid had become something of a friend and confidant in ways that not even Zolf could be.</p><p>“A pleasure to see you as always, Hamid,” he said, and no one in the room could miss the warmth that colored his tone. “I hope you’ve brought your appetite. Zolf here’s been in and out of the kitchen all day.”</p><p>That genial smile only grew brighter at the prospects of a homecooked meal provided by one Zolf Smith, former cleric of Poseidon, and it was one that Oscar himself could appreciate, having been privy to the dwarf’s cooking many, many times over the years.</p><p>Dinner was a comfortably relaxed affair. Zolf had prepared a hearty stew of Oscar’s childhood, a few dishes from Hamid’s own childhood, and prepared a delectable cheesecake with a fresh fruit compote for dessert. They caught each other up on the happenings of their lives despite their regular correspondence.</p><p>Eventually, Hamid suggested moving to the living room where he promptly went about lighting a fire as Oscar grabbed some nice wine and Zolf gathered the glasses. It was a familiar routine—an old hat for them—and there was a sort of comfort the men drew from it. Even the simplest of things could leave an impact, as they’d learned.</p><p>Settling down in the somewhat old and lumpy loveseat, the familiar weight of Zolf pressed comfortably against his side, he laced their fingers together and idly swirled the wine in his glass before lifting it and tipping it towards Hamid.</p><p>“To Sasha,” he started, “the best in her trade and one of the finest women this world’s ever known. Her puns weren’t as sharp as her blade, but her courage was her greatest weapon.”</p><p>“To Grizzop,” Hamid picked up, “never have I met a more honorable person. Even when he was threatening to shoot off kneecaps, he stuck to his faith and morality.”</p><p>“To Cel,” Zolf added, “They were a bloody genius, but they were an even better friend.”</p><p>“To Azu,” Hamid finished, “the heart of the team. Her beauty and love shone brighter than even the Heart of Aphrodite.”</p><p>The three clinked their glasses together before taking varying drinks. Oscar didn’t hesitate to drink deeply as he commemorated their fallen friends.</p><p>They spent the rest of the night like that. With good food filling their bellies and good wine filling their cups, the three men sat in the best company they could hope for, reminiscing of those they had the honor to know and love.</p><p>Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde, son of Sir William and Lady Jane Wilde, may never have expected to grow old, but on nights like this he couldn’t have been happier to be wrong.</p><p>
  <em>Who, being loved, is poor?</em>
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